


Out of the Cold

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, One Chocolate Frog a Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last-minute Christmas shopping yields just what Harry needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted December 14-15, 2005.
> 
> Written for the One Chocolate Frog a Day Advent Calendar on LiveJournal.

One of these years, he promised himself, he'd learn the wisdom of doing his shopping earlier than the week before Christmas. This year, alas, it was already too late. And today, of course, was a special circumstance, which made this outing moderately more excusable.

Flourish and Blotts was packed to the rafters with fellow last-minute shoppers—worse, even, than the August back-to-Hogwarts rush. Since childhood, Harry had never been particularly comfortable with small, enclosed spaces (ridiculous, he thought for the thousandth time, that the man who'd offed Voldemort should be mildly claustrophobic), and the heat and closeness of the place was enough to make him twitchy. But he was on a mission, and leaving now was out of the question—Flourish himself had told Harry they were expecting a new shipment of the latest book in the Caitlyn Kenmore series today. They were all the rage among wizarding children these days—the improbable adventures of an American Muggle girl at boarding school (frankly, Harry didn't understand the fascination)—and the bookstore had been cleaned out of its previous shipment within hours. Harry knew Ron and Hermione hadn't been able to get their hands on the newest installment yet, and little Molly was pining. To tell the truth, so was Hermione, though at first she'd been mortified that all her little girl wanted to read was popular children's fiction…then she'd read the first few books in the series, and her protests had mysteriously evaporated. Ron had laughed himself silly over it, although never in Hermione's hearing. Besides, Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Ron had been reading the books in secret himself. He always seemed just a tad too interested when the subject of Caitlyn Kenmore came up in conversation.

So Harry figured the least he could do as Molly's godfather (and, of course, her parents' loyal friend) was brave the holiday crowds at the bookshop and pick up a copy of the elusive novel. It was just a question of finding the blasted things in this crush.

He fought his way though the crowd toward the corner where he knew the children's books were tucked, and breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted one of the shop's young assistants just starting to stack a load of books with the tell-tale garish covers. He reached to snatch one out of the pile, only to see another hand lay claim to the very book Harry had been reaching for. Frowning, he grabbed another, then glanced up and found himself looking into the face of a man he'd have preferred never to cross paths with again. "Malfoy," he said involuntarily.

Malfoy smirked. It had been over a decade since Harry had seen him this close, and he was remarkably unchanged—pale, pointy face; sharp gray eyes; hair oddly silver in the morning sunlight that filtered through the store's small, high windows. Harry found himself wondering, incongruously, whether Malfoy would even know it if his hair started to turn gray. Recently he'd been finding a few too many silver hairs on his own head for his liking. Or maybe Malfoy would be the sort to go bald. Surely that long hair his father had been so proud of once upon a time had to have been overcompensation for something. If not baldness, then impotence. Oh, definitely impotence.

Harry was so distracted by the sheer joy of such an image that he almost didn't realize Malfoy was addressing him. When he did catch on, he wiped the grin from his own face and said, "What?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I think you've just proved my point." He gestured at the book in Harry's hands. "I said, your reading level is showing, Potter."

Harry scowled. "Wouldn't that be the pot calling the kettle black, Malfoy?"

"This, I'll have you know, happens to be a Christmas gift for Pansy's little girl, because I am the very soul of benevolence."

Pansy Parkinson, Harry remembered. Married Theodore Nott after Hogwarts, widowed when Nott died in Azkaban following a last-ditch grab for power by a clutch of remaining Death Eaters after Voldemort's demise. He remembered hearing a rumor that she'd been pregnant at the time. He'd thought it a blatant—and false—grab for sympathy. Apparently he'd been wrong.

Feeling a strange wave of guilt wash over him (at misjudging Pansy Parkinson, of all people; what was the world coming to?), Harry only replied politely, "I'm sure she'll enjoy it."

Malfoy scowled. "And I suppose you've some little ankle-biter at home salivating for the new Caitlyn Kenmore."

"Me?" Harry laughed. "Hardly."

One silver eyebrow rose. "You mean you haven't been busy producing the next generation of she-weasels?"

"She—oh. Ginny, you mean. No, that ended long ago."

"Ah," Malfoy said, and frowned.

It struck Harry suddenly that he was having a halfway civil conversation with Draco bloody Malfoy, the bane of his adolescent existence, the man who'd been the boy who'd caused Dumbledore's death, the former Death Eater who'd saved his own neck only by ratting on his fellow minions of Voldemort and then testifying at nearly every Death Eater trial. In the end, Malfoy had served only six months in Azkaban for conspiracy and a few years' probation. He'd even been allowed to keep most of his fortune after his father's death in the war. That he continued to flaunt it was obvious from the cut of his cloak (probably worth more than all of Harry's clothes put together) and the scarf draped around the man's neck, the fabric a vivid green that drew the eye and a soft-looking weave that tempted the fingers.

Not that Harry had ever been tempted to anything by Malfoy, except maybe bodily harm.

"Life treating you well, Malfoy?" Harry asked, assuring himself that he didn't care either way.

Malfoy smiled, but it seemed more a baring of teeth than anything else. "Always has, Potter."

"Right," Harry said. "I'll just be going, then."

Malfoy opened his mouth, then closed it, the lines of his face settling into a frown. He did have lines on his face, Harry was curious to note—not deep, not even particularly noticeable, but enough to hint that life hadn't been all high society and unimaginable wealth, even for Draco Malfoy. He would have guessed Malfoy was the type who'd be too shallow to develop wrinkles, or too vain not to conceal them with a glamour. It almost felt like he'd caught the other man naked.

"Er, nice seeing you," Harry said, and it almost wasn't a lie.

He fought back through the crowd to the register to pay for the book, realizing only when he turned to leave that Malfoy had been behind him in line. Malfoy gave a stiff nod, and Harry inclined his own head briefly before making his way toward the door.

Once out on the street again, he sucked in a deep breath of the sharp, cold air. It almost hurt to breathe it, but after the stifling atmosphere in Flourish and Blotts, it was like heaven. He tucked the book under his arm as he paused to pull on his gloves and wrap his scarf more closely around his neck. Damn, but the air was brisk today, and the wind battered him with tiny snowflakes. He struck out toward The Leaky Cauldron, thinking perhaps to grab a pint before heading home.

Before he'd gone more than half a dozen steps, a voice called out behind him. "Potter! Wait, Potter!"

He thought about not turning around. He very nearly didn't. But after only a momentary hesitation, he did, though he'd identified that snide accent immediately. "What, Malfoy?"

In the whirling snow, Malfoy reminded Harry of an apparition, all porcelain-pale skin and translucent hair and eyes like shadows. Harry wasn't certain what to make of his expression—some inexplicable combination of loathing and curiosity and terror. Malfoy halted at Harry's words. "I…nothing." He shook his head, seeming almost angry. "Nothing. Never mind."

In that instant, seeing Malfoy still as the wind swept around him, that garish, maddening green scarf tucked so neatly around his neck, Harry knew there could be no _never mind_ about this, about anything that had ever gone on between them. He strode back to where Malfoy stood. "Nothing. Right." Anger like he hadn't felt in years seized him. "Fitting, since that's all you ever were, Malfoy, and it's all you'll ever be. _Nothing_."

Malfoy gazed back at him, expressionless.

"I don't care how many Death Eaters you put in prison after the war," Harry continued, somehow only more infuriated by Malfoy's lack of response. "It doesn't matter, because you'll never be anything more than a pointy-faced git who picked the wrong fucking side."

Malfoy laughed, a bitter sound. "Oh, and you're so lily-white and pure in your motives, Potter. I still have scars from what you did to me in sixth year, you know. And I saw you kill my father. You _smiled_."

"I did not!" Did he? "Besides, whatever I did, your father deserved it!"

"No one deserves to die, Potter."

"Says the fucking _former Death Eater_ ," Harry spat. "Probably still haven't gotten over the fact that we killed your beloved leader."

"No," Malfoy responded coolly, "actually, I stand corrected. Voldemort definitely deserved to die."

Malfoy's use of the name was like a splash of cold water, halting whatever had been on the tip of Harry's tongue—and at that point, he wasn't entirely sure what that might have been, though he was pretty certain it wouldn't have been something that was wise to say on a public street. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. This wasn't war anymore; it wasn't even Hogwarts. There was nothing to gain by baiting Malfoy, and if Harry felt more alive right now than he had in months, well, that was only the adrenaline talking, and maybe it was long past time he joined a recreational Quidditch league on the weekends.

Harry scratched idly at his neck, where his own scarf made him itch, and in the silence, Malfoy unbelievably didn't move away, but only watched him, calm and assessing.

"I used to wish you dead, you know," Harry said.

Oddly, that drew a hint of a smile from Malfoy. "Oh, I assure you, the feeling was mutual."

"Do you still?"

"Wish you dead?"

"Yeah."

There was that smile again, and Harry would have sworn it contained a hint of self-mockery if he hadn't known that was a concept unknown to the Malfoy clan. "No," Malfoy said. "Not for a long time."

It wasn't precisely the answer Harry had expected. "What changed?"

"Well," Malfoy said, "to begin with, there was the whole 'if Potter dies, who's going to do in the Dark Lord?' dilemma."

"Oh," Harry said. "Yeah. Right."

"And, well…." Malfoy's gaze skittered away, and suddenly he seemed absorbed by the display of hippogriff talons in the window of the Apothecary across the street. "Maybe I got used to having you around."

Harry frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Malfoy's eyes met his again, and Harry found himself shivering from something entirely unrelated to the frigid temperature. "It means, maybe I didn't understand what hate truly was until I watched Voldemort tear apart my family, and torture and kill my friends," Malfoy said, without any trace of self-pity. "And maybe I didn't realize until then that what I felt about you was something rather more complicated."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but his mind had gone blank. However, years of battling Dark Lords and masked henchmen had left Harry with a healthy respect for his instincts, so when something inside him urged him to take a step closer to Malfoy, he did. Still holding Malfoy's gaze, he stripped off one of his gloves and gave into temptation, reaching to finger the bright green cloth that hugged Malfoy's neck. Unbelievably, it was even softer than it looked, and he stroked it, fascinated.

"I don't anymore either, you know," he said at last.

"Don't what?"

"Wish you dead."

The words startled a short, rusty laugh out of Malfoy. "Oh. Ah, that's good, I suppose."

"Although you'd never know it by the way I'm keeping you out here in the cold," Harry murmured, deliberately keeping his fingers where they were, caressing the incredible softness of Malfoy's scarf. He could see that Malfoy's cheeks had pinked slightly, and Harry didn't think that was entirely from the cold either. It was a good look on him—and wasn't _that_ a strange thought to be having about Draco Malfoy?

"Oh," Malfoy said, shifting his weight and moving his book under his other arm. "Yes, I suppose…time to go…." But he didn't make any move to back away, and Harry thought he saw something like challenge lurking in those shadowy gray eyes.

Harry lifted his hand from Malfoy's scarf and tugged his glove back on. "I was just about to head over to The Leaky Cauldron to get out of the cold," he said, aiming for casual and not quite hitting it, but what did it matter when Malfoy was looking at him like that? "Maybe you'd like to join me for a drink? Er, purely for the purpose of warming up, of course."

Malfoy laughed, a real laugh this time. "Warm up to you, Potter?" he said, and smirked. "You know, I think I just might."


End file.
